Robert Asprin - Phule Me Twice

"Ah, so, you're at least loyal to your comrades, if a bit stupid," said Botchup. "You're going to the stockade, boy-for ten days."

"Yes, Major," said Mahatma with his usual smile. "I didn't know we had a stockade yet. Am I going to have one built for me?"

"That kind of impertinence will get you an extra ten days, legionnaire!" Botchup barked. Behind him, Snipe scowled.

"He's full of crap, Major," said another voice. "I'm the one you're after."

"Who said that?" Botchup whirled to look at the other legionnaires standing in formation.

Six legionnaires stepped forward. "We did, sir," they chorused.

"No, it was me," came a synthesized voice, and a Synthian slid forward on a glide-board. "Put me in the stockade, Major!"

Botchup turned to Brandy. "How do you explain this rank insubordination, Sergeant?"

Brandy favored him with a cool stare. "I don't, Major. Never had any problem with it before. They usually look for ways to stay out of the stockade."

"I believe that, at least," said Botchup, frowning at the legionnaires who had stepped forward. Then, as if he was worried that the entire formation would step forward if he keep watching, he turned his back and pointed a finger at Brandy.

"I'm going to leave you to sort this mess out, Sergeant," he said. "I don't care how you do it, as long as the legionnaire responsible is properly disciplined. I'll expect a report. And the entire company is confined to the post until further notice!"

"Yes, sir!" said Brandy stiffly, but the major had already whirled around and stalked off, with Lieutenant Snipe close behind.

Somehow, all the legionnaires managed to keep serious expressions on their faces. Except for Brandy. She didn't have to try.

Chief Potentary Korg looked carefully at the list Phule had given him. Prepared in both Zenobian and Standard English, it represented an agreement for the Zenobians to supply the Legion company with certain essentials during its stay on the planet, as well as specifying the details of delivery. "Yes, this is all in order," said Korg. The wattles at his throat shook as his head nodded-a gesture the Zenobians and humans had in common. "I will see to it that the first deliveries arrive at your camp within two cycles of the primary."

"Excellent," said Phule. "This will give us greatly improved logistics. Being dependent on material brought in from off-world is never ideal. We're lucky that our two industrial bases are similar enough for us to exchange products."

"Yes, except for discrepancies of measurement," said Korg. "Your units have mystified our engineers. Why in Gazma's name do meters and kilograms multiply by tens, and seconds by sixties?"

"Ancient Earth history," said Phule with a shrug. "I'm a soldier, not an engineer. I just have to use the stuff, not make sense of it."

"I foresee difficulties when trade between our worlds extends beyond raw materials," said Korg, ambling over to stare out a window at the busy Zenobian capital city. "I assure you, our factories will not be happy if they must retool to match Alliance standards."

"That won't be as big a problem as you think," said Phule. "We're already dealing with four advanced races, each with its own standards-and nobody wanted to change, believe me. Most of the worlds still use their own standards for internal markets. But when you become a major player in interworld trade, you'll find that the profits are significant enough to make retooling worthwhile. My father's done it plenty of times in his munitions business. Just for one example, you'll find that his copy of your stun ray is part-for-part interchangeable with your original.

Korg turned and looked at Phule with what appeared to be a puzzled expression. "Why would he do that? Would it not be easier to capture the market for himself if he made the copy to his own standard?"

"Maybe, but this way, your forces can become customers. He's willing to bet he can match your quality-or top it. And having more than one source of standard replacement parts is a selling point. His customers are less likely to get hit with shortages. To take the obvious case, it's a lot easier and cheaper for Omega Company to buy spare parts from you than to bring them in from off-planet. And if you send forces off-planet, odds are they'll do business with Phule-Proof."

"Very interesting," said Korg, clapping his hands together. "This opens up possibilities I had not foreseen. Our economists will want to scrutinize this theory. Perhaps I will call you back to address a group of them, when you have settled your company in place."

"I'm not an economic theorist, but I'd be glad to share a few ideas with your people," said Phule. "But your mentioning my company reminds me. I do have work to do at the camp, and it's past time I got down to it. Thank you for your hospitality, and I hope we can help you solve the problems you called us in about. I've got a couple of my best people working on possible answers, and we'll let you know as soon as we have anything to report."

"Very good," said Korg. "Your vehicle has been fueled, and you should find all in readiness. I look forward to working with you and your people, Captain Clown."

"The pleasure will be mutual, I'm sure," said Phule. He snapped off a salute and gathered up his papers for the trip to camp. He was especially anxious to see how the new equipment was working in his absence-as well as how the company had handled its responsibilities under Rembrandt and Armstrong. He'd been delegating more and more responsibility to them, and they'd responded by growing into the expanded roles he'd given them. If this kept up, the company would be able to survive the worst assaults of its enemies, who, he increasingly suspected, were thicker in Legion Headquarters than here on Zenobia or anywhere else.

Major Botchup had ordered Lieutenant Armstrong to show his adjutant Lieutenant Snipe the camp, an assignment that Snipe took as license to treat Armstrong as his personal lackey. Armstrong was already silently fuming even before the pair arrived at Comm Central. He ushered Snipe through the door and said in a low voice, "This is the base's real nerve center. With our wrist communicators, every legionnaire in the company can reach anyone else on a moment's notice."

"That sounds like a security risk," said Snipe. "What if the enlisted men listen in on the officers' communications?"

"Not a problem," said Armstrong. "We have private circuits for the officers when we need to talk among ourselves."

"As long as nobody's eavesdropping," said Snipe, tapping his finger on the top of a counter. "The major will want to take a good close look at that system. We aren't in friendly territory here. The enemy could know every move you're planning before your own men do."

"Oh, I doubt that," said Armstrong. "The captain's brought in all the best new equipment. It's got security features well above milspec."

"Security features that anybody else with enough money can buy. Or buy the equipment to bug everything you say," sniffed Snipe, clearly unimpressed.

While they'd been talking, Mother had been sinking lower and lower behind her equipment console. Finally, when Snipe turned and pointed at her and snapped, "Who's that?" she gave a little cry and sank entirely out of sight.

Snipe turned to Armstrong and said, "Who is that person? Doesn't she know the proper way to act when an officer enters the room?"

"Pgtkr," said Mother, almost inaudibly, from behind the desk.

"Speak up!" said Snipe. "If you're going to address an officer, do so in a proper military manner! What is your name and serial number, legionnaire?"

"Gmafngbrkshl," said Mother, even more inaudibly. Suddenly she leapt up and bolted from the room.

"What the hell was that?" said Snipe, staring at the departing legionnaire.